


Nighthawks

by WolfOfAnsbach



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Experimental Style, Gen, Horror, Original Character(s), Other, So Spooky, Stream of Consciousness, i guess?, i never write first person POV but that was the only I could do this one, main character is more of a surrogate for the reader, warning this is really weird, whoooo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-08 00:44:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14682939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfOfAnsbach/pseuds/WolfOfAnsbach
Summary: A lone traveler driving late at night through Upstate New York finds himself in need of food and rest. Against his better judgment, he stops in a strange, eerie little town called Riverdale.OrRiverdale as one of the ghost towns of American folklore





	Nighthawks

**Author's Note:**

> I once made an off-the-cuff joke about Riverdale being like one of those horror movie Children of the Corn-esque towns that unfortunate motorists on cross-country journeys get stuck in, except from the perspective of the people who live there. So this is my attempt to expand that joke into a substantial story.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I speed-wrote this in like 3-5 hours so I apologize for any inconsistencies, grammar, or punctuation mistakes.

I had the windows, both driver and passenger, rolled all the way down. It was at that point just between dusk and pitch darkness. A few stubborn rays of sun clung tenaciously to the horizon. The trees on either side of the highway shuddered in a lifting wind. I could hear running water and I could smell the fresh scent of a river, even if it was invisible in the darkness.

I was a stranger to the area. I just barely knew where I was. There was a loose belt of towns built alongside the banks of a little river, most of them as old as the country itself. The river was called Pickens Run, officially. In the last town, a local had offhandedly informed me most folks around here just called it ‘Sweetwater’. I didn’t ask why. I’d been vaguely following that line of old townships for some six hours now.

There was road, road, and only road to break up the drab, russet-green upstate New York countryside, and that was all there had been for miles. I didn’t mind too much. The fresh smell of pine trickled into the car on the breeze. Every so often I’d see a deer or some other pair of bright, wild eyes flickering in the trees.

I had stopped in a town called Midvale some miles back. As I finished up my greasy, meager diner meal, the waitress had asked me where I was headed. So I’d told her. I had friends up in Boston that I intended to visit. She smiled and asked me where the next stretch of my journey was taking me. I said I was planning on following the turnpike as far as Greendale, and then turning due east. Her face went white. More than a few of the diner’s patrons turned to look at me. I could hardly read their faces. Scared or angry.

The waitress advised me to turn west instead, and circumvent the next few miles of Sweetwater entirely. I asked her why, considering it would add an extra two or three hours to my trip. She forced a smile and said ‘you aren’t from around here, son. You ought to pay the locals mind.”

I smiled back, and told her I’d keep her suggestion in mind. I didn’t, of course.

And I didn’t regret it. It was a lovely ride. I hadn’t seen a house or the lights of a truck stop in hours. Or even another car.

The moon climbed up into the sky.

I began to scent what smelled a little like maple mingling with the pine. I breathed in, deep and strong. The heady scent swirled down through my nostrils and into my lungs. It was pleasant at first, like a warm, eager buzz in the base of my chest. But after a moment it began to burn. I even coughed. Accidentally sucking in a great gulp of smoke. That was the sensation.

I grew tired. Moonlight blazed over the road ahead of me. It was another twenty miles or so before I started to have trouble keeping my eyes open. The isolation that had thrilled began to worry. I was going to need somewhere to stop. And yet—there was still no sign of any humanity to be seen.

Something dark, rigid, and tall loomed up in my path. I sighed in relief, even before I knew what it was. It was artificial, obviously. That was enough to calm me. A gleaming line of silver cut across the road and then swept away into the woods. I squinted. It was a river, Pickens Run—or Sweetwater—obviously. And the mysterious structure was a covered bridge.

I eased the car closer. A big, worn sign greeted me.

_Welcome to Riverdale! The town with PEP!_

I squinted. Had I seen this town anywhere on the maps? I _had_ known it was here, hadn’t I? It felt like something I’d forgotten, but just remembered. I couldn’t pinpoint the exact memory of seeing it stamped onto my crumpled roadmap or listed in my little guidebook, but I _knew_ I’d seen it, somewhere.

It wasn’t a surprise, in any case.

I trundled over the bridge. Sweetwater rustled and growled beneath my squeaking tires. I was glad to be over the other bank. The river hissed and moaned behind me. It reminded me of a whining animal.

There was another mile or two of road before the lights twinkled on the rise. I sighed. I was dead tired. The shapes of houses and business appeared out of the midnight darkness. It was strange; I couldn’t tell precisely where the lights were coming from. They were coming from the windows and from shop signs, like the lights of all little rural towns do, but at the same time they weren’t. It was like I was gazing into the painting of an artist who understood that human settlements gave off light, but didn’t understand how.

The town was small and quaint. Perfect Hopperian Americana.

The houses all lined up in neat, whitewashed little rows. The stores and businesses had humble names. The sort that only worked in little towns. Just ‘Andrews Construction’ or ‘ _The Riverdale Register’_. There was no pomp or glitter.

Riverdale was almost preternaturally clean. No trash littered the roadside or flitted about in the breeze. The roads looked polished. Even that which was run down was run down in a tasteful, satisfying way. I passed by a sprawling lot advertising ‘The Twilight Drive-In’. The lettering was washed out and the chain link fences were rusted, but not as if it was the victim of decades’ decay. More as if it had been painted that way.

It wasn’t like some eerie ghost town, or anything. There were a few folks out on the street, though not many. It was late, after all. I’d pass maybe two or three people per four blocks.

I turned a corner.

A little diner, perfectly preserved in the mid-1950s, greeted me. I sighed in delight. I was starving again. Not to mention thirsty. A flickering neon sign informed me that this was ‘ _Pop’s Chock’lit Shoppe_ ’. I smiled, wearily.

Within was as quaint as without. The lights were just bright enough to be artfully dim. A wide-set older man with a friendly, avuncular face raised his head as I entered. A little bell rang. He removed a little cap from his head and dusted it off. He smiled.

“Hi, there!” he greeted.

“Hi,” I replied. I slid into a seat at the bar.

“We don’t get a lot of folks from out of town,” grinned the man I assumed must be Pop. “It’s nice to see a fresh face.”

“Thanks. I don’t see why. This looks like a nice town.”

“At first glance.”

I turned my head. An uneasy, slithering disconcert stabbed into my gut at the realization I’d somehow missed the group of four crammed into a booth near the door. I should have noticed them when I’d entered. My perceptions were off.

They were a handsome group of kids, probably only three or four years younger than me at most. I noticed a letterman jacket on the handsome, broad-shouldered redhead. They were still in high school, then. At the football player’s side sat a pretty, elegant brunette who practically exuded wealth. A necklace of pearls ringed her slender neck. She waved playfully.

Across from them sat a pair that might have been their mirror image. Another girl, a lovely blonde with bright blue eyes in a beige cardigan, smiled at me, face practically glowing. The final party member was a slender kid gazing out at me from beneath the brim of a natty beanie cap, practically buried in a tough Sherpa jacket. I instinctively knew it was he that had spoken.

“Don’t mind Jughead, son,” Pop said with a smile. “He’s our resident novelist, and he likes to look on the gloomy side of things.”

“You oversell me, Pop,” Jughead said with a grin.

I smiled. “Nice to meet you guys.”

“Nice to meet you,” the redhead said. “I’m Archie.” “This is Jughead.” He pointed to Jughead. “This is Betty.” He pointed to the blonde. “That’s Veronica.”

The names struck me as eminently familiar. I thought perhaps it was only because they were so quintessentially wholesome and American. But even _Jughead_ struck me as something I’d heard before. I waved it off.

I turned back to Pop.

“So, what’ve you got here?” I asked him.

“Everything’s good,” Veronica called from her seat. “But the milkshakes and burgers are Pop’s _raison d’etre_ , if you will.”

I nodded.

“Ms. Lodge has got a point,” Pop said. “Those are my specialties.”

“Well, then one burger and one vanilla milkshake,” I ordered. “And an order of fries.”

Pop nodded. He disappeared into the kitchen. Did he run the place by himself?

“Why don’t you come sit with us?” Betty asked.

I wavered for a moment. Something felt off. In truth, I wanted to eat my food and then continue on my way. But they were strangely attractive. Not in _that_ way, but in a way that made it seem incredibly rude to refuse. It was something I had to do.

I stood and squeezed into their booth, next to Jughead.

“Pop’s right,” Archie said, smiling his charming, seemingly eternal smile. “We don’t get a lot of visitors in Riverdale,”

“Oh,” I said, unsure of what else I could say. “That sucks.”

“It’s not that kind of town,” Betty said softly.

“What kind of town?” I asked before I could stop myself.

“Just…that kind, you know,” Veronica said. She shrugged. “This is a special town.”

I smiled. I didn’t want to push it or tell them I still had no idea what they meant. I supposed everyone thought their hometown was special in a way.

“Very special,” Jughead said. He turned to look at me, blue eyes cold and steely. I resisted the urge to shrink away. I kicked myself mentally. I couldn’t let myself get freaked out by some artsy high school kid.

“I’m sure,” I nodded. It sounded meaner than I’d meant it to. They didn’t seem to notice.

“Why are you here?” Betty asked. “I’m sorry, that sounded rude…I mean, where are you heading?”

“Boston,” I responded. My mouth was a little dry by now.

“Boston. That’s a long way,” Archie commented.

Jughead rolled his eyes.

“Thanks, Archie.”

“I hope you’re not planning on driving anymore, tonight?” Betty asked.

“Well…I was…” I said tentatively, hoping she didn’t have a good reason that I shouldn’t.

“Oh…I don’t think you should,” she said. “It can be a little dangerous sometimes.”

My back tingled a little. My feet felt cold.

“Dangerous…what can be dangerous?”

“Riverdale, duh,” Veronica said, slurping her milkshake.

“Riverdale’s not dangerous _because_ it’s Riverdale,” Archie said. I hadn’t the slightest idea what he meant, and it was beginning to unnerve.

“I disagree, Archie,” said Jughead, who tore his gaze from me for a moment to fix it on his friend. “That’s _exactly_ why Riverdale is dangerous.”

“I—I’m sorry—“ I cut in. “What exactly is dangerous around here.”

“There’s the man in the black hood. There are the guys in leather jackets, sometimes. The serpent. It all depends on the time.”

I wondered if they were screwing with me. I probably should have just gotten up and left. I didn’t. I don’t know why. Something about them kept me. Even when speaking in odd, cryptic half-riddles they were an eminently comforting group. I felt on some odd level that nothing truly bad could happen so long as I stayed here in this booth.

“Did you see them? On the way in?” Jughead asked.

“Did I…see what?”

“The shadows,” he said, firmly. “Underneath.”

“I…I’m sorry? What shadow—“

Pop returned, carrying my burger, fries and milkshake.

Veronica was right. They were fantastic. Probably the best I’d ever tasted. Absolutely delicious. A full stomach swept away all of the creeping weirdness these kids had imparted upon me. For a moment. I listened to them talk as I ate. And it was simple, innocent high school stuff, for the most part. Every so often one of them—usually Jughead—would make some strange comment, but that was all. And yet, even as they talked, I noticed something strange. I could understand their words, and I could understand their sentences, but I had much trouble understanding exactly _what_ they were talking about. It was as if all of the pieces of a conversation were there, but I couldn’t quite see how they fit together.

I finished quickly. I stood to leave, both invigorated and unnerved by the entire experience.

“It was nice meeting you guys,” I stammered.

“It was nice meeting you,” Jughead said. I was at once a bit hurt and a bit glad he didn’t ask my name.

But suddenly I felt I shouldn’t go. From Pop’s perhaps, but not from Riverdale. It wasn’t that they’d _scared_ me with their talk of danger and shadows. I didn’t think so, at least. But perhaps it would be prudent to spend the night here. I would never have made such a decision in a sound state of mind. But I wasn’t.

“Is there a hotel in town?” I asked. They gave me the oddest set of looks, like I’d asked for the address of a wizard.

“Some ratty Motel 6 types, probably,” Veronica said.

“Probably,” Betty echoed.

“It’s not like anyone’s going to _sleep_ tonight, anyway,” Veronica scoffed. She rolled her eyes.

Now what the hell was _that_ supposed to mean?

“Good point, Ronnie,” Archie said, that blinding smile still plastered onto his face.

“No one really sleeps much, here,” Jughead explains. He brushed aside a lock of dark hair. “This is the town without a sunup.”

“I—It was nice meet you guys,” I stammered again. I stepped out of Pop’s before they could say anything more. I’d already reached the car when I realized I hadn’t paid for my food. I swore. I stood by the driver’s door, waiting for Pop to come rushing out with a check. He never came. Still, the decent thing to do was to go back in and pay. I stared through the window. The four friends were still sitting there, speaking animatedly. It looked so odd. Like they were following a script. I got the sense they’d had these conversations a thousand times before, and they’d have them a thousand times again and again after that.

I turned around to unlock my car. I dropped my keys. I reached down to pick them up, and when I stood again, I found myself staring into Jughead’s bright blue eyes. I almost screamed. He had been in the window with his friends a moment before. It simply wasn’t possible he’d risen and exited Pop’s so quickly. Certainly not so quietly. His friends kept talking, even with the vacant seat in their midst. I saw them turn their eyes and faces towards the empty air where Jughead should have been, as if he was still there. It reminded me of the glitches in the video games I used to play, when a character failed to load, and yet the others still acted as if he was there.

Jughead stared at me.

“Hey. But really, why are you here?” he asked.

“I—I’m just stopping through. Look, I don’t—“

“As long as you’re leaving,” He stepped back.

I didn’t have the wherewithal to be offended.

“Yeah. I’m leaving.”

“You really ought to. And this isn’t me trying to be rude. Trust me.”

“Yeah. I’m going.” I half-stepped into the car. Then I stopped. That stupid, dumb curiosity that never failed to get me into trouble was eating at my gut. “Why, though?” I asked, kicking myself even as I did it.

Jughead leaned in. His face looked odd. _He_ looked odd. Like he was the outline of a person more than a real guy.

“Did you hear Pop Tate call me a novelist?” he asked.

“I…yeah?”

“Well, he’s right. But I’m a writer only half as much as I’m _written_. Do you understand?”

I furrowed my brow and shook my head.

“…No?” I slammed the car door. “Look, have a nice night.” I said.

He nodded and waved. I looked away for a moment, looked back, and he was gone. I peered back into Pop’s. In a split second, he’d returned to his place in the booth.

I sped away. Riverdale flew by me. There were more people lining the streets than there had been when I first drove on. That was odd. Didn’t make sense. It was even later, now. Probably almost 3:00. There shouldn’t be _more_ people. Come to think of it, why the hell had a few high school kids even been out at the diner this late on a school night?

I shook my head. It didn’t matter. The road I took led towards the outskirts of town, away from the neat little houses and businesses. I soon heard the babbling of Sweetwater. It calmed me. I drove quickly, buildings on one side and dark forest on the other.

Something tall and white loomed up on the side of the road. I squinted, and realized with a jolt of discomfort that it was a person. A guy. He was a tall, slender, redhead. For a moment, I thought it was Archie. But that was impossible, of course. No one could move that fast. But then, Jughead...Against my instincts, I slowed the car as I approached. It wasn’t Archie. It was another kid, though probably about his age. He held up a hand. I shook my head. I sure as hell wasn’t going to pick up any hitchhikers. Not here. I passed the redheaded kid by. He reached out after the car. I shivered.

I drove for another five minutes. Then it happened—

There was a wet rustling. A strange sound, like someone moving through mud blanketed in leaves. Then the sound of dripping water, like a faucet left leaking through the night. Then a blur. I whipped my head towards the empty passengers seat—except it wasn’t empty anymore. Because the kid was sitting there. He turned his face towards me.

Probably, he had been handsome. His face was stark white. A pair of dead, grey-blue eyes gazed out at me. His sallow skin was covered in ugly gashes and bruises. His lips were colorless. Water dripped from his red hair, over his white shirt and white trousers. Between his eyes sat an ugly, neat little bullet hole. He smelled like water and weeds. Like a river.

I screamed. It must have all lasted a mere second. I slammed the wheel hard to the right, as if I could drive away from the apparition _sitting next to me._ The car whipped off of the road. The tree loomed up in front of me. Too late. We struck head on with a jolt that snapped my entire body forward and sent bolts of pain shooting through my chest and limbs.

The apparition was gone. So was the smell of river water and decay. The passenger’s seat was bone dry. I ripped off my seatbelt and felt myself for injuries. Miraculously, there was nothing. No blood. No aches. I ran a hand through my hair. Nothing. I was unscathed.

I spilled out of the door and tumbled onto the dewy ground.

The car was a different story. Totaled. The hood was caved in. Plumes of smoke puffed up from the ruin. I could hardly have cared less.

I threw myself against the trunk of a nearby tree and tried to piece together the last several hours.

The apparition hadn’t been real.

I was tired. _Exhausted_. I’d been driving non-stop for nearly twenty-four hours. Jughead and his friends had creeped me out at the diner. This whole fucking town was weird. That was all. The car probably wasn’t salvageable, which was bad considering I wasn’t exactly swimming in cash, but at least I was alive and seemingly unhurt. I just had to get to a phone. And probably a doctor.

I stared down the dark, winding road. A pair of pinprick headlights blinked into being on the horizon. I felt equal parts fear and relief. The headlights crept closer. It was a truck. A modest pickup. I waved.

The vehicle rolled to a stop.

A good-looking middle aged man with a modest beard, clad in a flannel shirt, leaned out of the window.

“Are you alright, there?” he asked. He looked past me to the smoldering wreck of my car just off the road.

“Not exactly!” I said with a shrill, panicked laugh.

Someone shifted in the passenger’s seat. The figure leaned over to see around the driver’s shoulder. An attractive blonde woman, probably about the man’s age, came into view.

“I can see that,” the woman said.

“Do you need a ride?” the man asked. His kindly, easy voice lulled me into a sense of security.

“Yes. _Please_.” I said.

He smiled.

“Hop in.”

I gratefully climbed into the back of the truck. The man leaned around and I took his firm, calloused hand in mine,

“Thanks,” I said.

“Sure. The name’s Fred Andrews.” The woman leaned around to look me in the eye.

“Alice Cooper,” she introduced herself.

I nodded, and declined to make the obvious joke, figuring she’d probably heard it a thousand times.

Perhaps it was rude not to introduce myself, but I really couldn’t bring myself to. The engine hummed gently, and we started off back the road. I was too tired to take note of the fact that we were heading back the way I’d come.

“You’re lucky we caught you,” Fred said. “I was just giving Alice a ride back into town.”

“From where?” I asked.

“God only knows,” Alice scoffed. I was far too exhausted to ask what that meant.

“Wai—what town?” I asked, fear pooling anew in my stomach.

“Riverdale,” Fred said.

My entire body chilled. God, I didn’t want to go _back_ into town. I clawed at the leather of the seats.

“C-can I use one of your phones?” I asked, shaking.

“I’m afraid I haven’t got mine on me,” Fred said.

“I don’t, either,” Alice told me.

My head spun. I felt nauseous.

“But that’s okay,” Fred went on. “We’ll head back to my house, and you can use our phone, there. My son Archie should be back about now. I think you met him at Pop’s earlier.”

My tongue seemed to swell in my mouth. I could practically feel my pupils explode. My guts felt squeezed in a vice.

“H-how do you know that?” I demanded.

Fred shook his head, almost sadly. He opened his mouth to answer. Before he could. A phalanx of shadows emerged from the mist and barred our path. I squinted through the windshield. The shadows became a fleet of motorcyclists in dark leather jackets. The truck sputtered to a halt. On top of everything else, were we going to be robbed?

Fred and Alice stepped out. I followed, my legs barely consenting to work.

The head biker idled and cut his engine. He stood. He was a handsome, powerful man with an unruly air about him, and a pair of bright eyes that reminded me very much of Jughead’s, even if they were the wrong color. A few of the other bikers stood up.  The man reached out and embraced Fred, and then Alice. Then he planted a fist on his hip.

“Where the hell are you off to, Freddy?” he asked.

“I was just…heading back into town, FP,” Fred answered. He spared me a quick glance over his shoulder. It was almost apologetic.

The man, who I guess was called FP, nodded.

“Did you _forget_?” he asked Fred.

Fred sighed.

“I guess I did.”

“Uh huh,” FP turned to look at me. I shrank away.

“Uh huh. Who’s the kid?”

Fred shrugged and smiled grimly.

“Just a kid.”

“Well, I guess he can come to.”

“I guess he _has_ to,” offered a pretty young woman on a bike, with pink streaks in her hair.

I struggled to remain upright.

The girl was flanked by two boys. They all wore those heavy leather jackets. My eyes fell to one of the boys, the shorter one, with bronze skin and a sharply handsome face. There was something wrong. His undershirt was stained bright red. Wet, dripping red. Blood. He was bleeding through his shirt, and bleeding _bad_. No one bleeding that bad should even be standing, much less acting so cool and nonplussed.

“Are…you okay?” I managed.

The guy smiled.

“Fangs is fine,” the girl said.

I almost fainted.

“Let’s go!” FP commanded.

Alice, Fred, and I climbed back into the truck. We all took off like a convoy, the truck surrounded on all sides by bikers.

We moved towards town, but took a sharp turn away from the river, and continued up a winding, wooded road. No one spoke.

Something great and dark loomed out of the gloom. A massive colonial mansion came into view. My jaw dropped. It was a truly ponderous house. It looked like a mountain more than anything else. The dark, lacquered wood and the ancient, stolid brick glittered in the moonlight.

“Welcome to Thornhill,” Alice said, somewhere between awe and disgust.

“Please—I have to go,” I bleated.

“I know you do,” Fred said sadly.

We pulled up through the estate’s massive iron-wrought gates. The motorcyclists pulled ahead of us, like an honor guard of cavalry. As we neared, I noticed something else about the house. Half had been gutted by fire. Moonlight cut through eerie skeleton of the mansion. With the framework and foundations exposed it looked like it was under construction again, save for the blackened wood and stone.

The truck stopped. I stepped out again. This time, my heart almost stopped. My legs _did_ buckle. I put out an arm to stop my fall. I was too weak. I braced myself for the impact.

Two pairs of arms caught me. I gasped. They dragged me to my feet. I looked into the eyes of the pink-haired girl and her friend. Not Fangs, bleeding like a dying man, but the other. A tall, dark-haired guy.

“He doesn’t look so good, Toni,” the guy said with a wicked smile.

Toni smiled at me.

“Don’t mind Sweet Pea. He never understands anything. Especially not this.”

Sweet Pea scowled. I was far too exhausted and terrified to question what sort of name ‘Sweet Pea’ was.

The two practically marched me to Thornhill’s mighty front doors. It was like stepping up to the gates of a castle. The doors swung inwards. Gentle, crystal light and soft music trickled out from inside. Something shifted in the light and shadow of the house. When it emerged, it was not a some _thing_ but a some _one_.

To be precise, it was a breathtakingly beautiful redhead in a blinding white dress that reminded me of antique grave clothes. She was so lovely that for a moment I forget just how terrified I was. The redhead cocked a hip. Her eyes drifted from one of us to the other.

“Hi, Toni,” she smiled. “Hi, Sweet Pea,” she said, with much less enthusiasm. Her eyes fell to me. They burned, dark and smoky.

“Hi, Cheryl,” Toni said.

Cheryl, the redhead, kept her eyes on me. I wanted to disappear.

“And him?”

Sweet Pea shrugged.

“He’s supposed to be here, I guess,” Toni said.

Cheryl pursed her full lips and rolled her eyes.

“Well, if he’s _here_ then he’s _supposed_ to be here.”

I looked up. The fire—whenever it had happened—had burned a great hole through the roof over our heads. I could see the moon behind the clouds in the sky above.

“What happened here?” I muttered.

“Nothing _happened_ ,” Cheryl snorted. “Something was _done_.”

I nodded, licking my lips. She led us through the house’s half-charred interior.

A sprawling dining room was built into the west wing of Thornhill. Half of its roof was gone. But the guests crammed into the room didn’t seem to mind. Their heads turned in perfect unison to greet us. I picked out Fred, Alice, and FP. I didn’t know how they’d gotten here without coming past us. Towards the back, I saw Archie, Veronica, and Betty. They were clustered together in a group to themselves, just as they had been at Pop’s.

Pop himself stood stock still, an empty wine glass in his hand. It was not empty as if he had consumed it all. It was perfectly dry.

Dozens of other faces I’d never seen made up the rest of the crowd.

Cheryl, Toni, and Sweet Pea passed me by, speaking in muted tones.

A hand fell to my shoulder.

I whipped my head around. It was Jughead. His eyes burned.

“I _told_ you!” he hissed.

“Told me…”

“About the shadows.”

And then he was gone. I didn’t understand how. It wasn’t as if he _vanished_ into thin air. But he moved in such a way that it _seemed_ he had. I could not describe it.

A massive dining table stretched across the center of the room, covered in a pristine white cloth stamped with a floral pattern suggesting red roses. It was covered in plates and glasses, but they were all perfectly empty. A little tub packed with ice and filled with empty wine bottles sat at the corner of the table.

“What are you doing, admiring the cutlery?” Cheryl’s sharp voice cut through my terror-induced fog.

“I-I-“

“Get _over_ here!”

I dumbly trudged across the room and joined the crowd. The stars twinkled above us. I felt like the entire structure might collapse at any moment. The mass of people seemed to part as I went by, as if I was infected by something.

The entire affair had the ambience of a fine dress ball, but no one dressed in anything but casual clothes. Save for Cheryl in her ghostly white dress.

Music came from… _somewhere_. I couldn’t place it. It seemed to drip from every pore and crevice of the place.

I noticed the same of the conversations here that I had at Pop’s. They were all perfectly intelligible, but they didn’t _mean_ anything.

A figure materialized at the head of the table. It was an older man, with neatly coiffed red hair. Except—his lips were dark blue. His face was pale. His eyes were light and milky. An ugly line of ligature marks wound around his neck. Like he’d been hanged.

“Welcome, Riverdale,” he said. His mouth moved out of step with his words. Like a movie out of sync.

The guests raised their empty glasses.

Cheryl materialized before me. She smiled fulsomely.

“You should meet someone, if you’re going to be here,” she said.

Then I noticed him. I didn’t understand how I didn’t notice him immediately. God knew how I hadn’t.  

It was the apparition. The dead young man with the red hair and the bullet hole between his eyes. He stood next to Cheryl, an arm around her waist. I made a few hopeless, sputtering noises of sheer terror. The dead boy smiled. His lips parted and river water dribbled out over his chin. He cocked his head. Cheryl giggled.

“Wh—“ I tried.

“Did you know my brother is dead?” Cheryl asked coyly. The dead boy’s grin widened. “His name’s Jason, by the way.”

Jughead drifted by behind me. He shook his head.

“Aren’t we all dead in some fashion?”

Cheryl scowled.

“Welcome, Riverdale,” repeated the hanged man presiding over the ceremonies. “It’s good that you’re all here. It’s necessary you’re all here.”

“Of course, Clifford,” said Pop.

“Of course,” the hanged man, whose name I supposed was Clifford, echoed. His dead eyes swung to me. “Everyone likes a good dinner party.”

I stepped back.

“Nothing makes sense,” Jughead muttered. “Nothing makes _any sense_.”

A handsome kid with light brown hair popped an empty champagne bottle. He poured a glass and handed it off to me. He smiled. I took it, my hand shaking. Something compelled me to drink. And I did. Though there was nothing in the cup, I drank. And it felt like something.

“Name’s Kevin,” the kid said. “Sorry to say ‘welcome’.”

I shook my head and took another sip.

“The sun—“ I croaked, suddenly.

Kevin cocked his head

“’The sun’?”

“It…it should be up, by now,” I said. It had been hours. Surely, it should be dawn. But overhead, through the flame-torn roof, there were only stars and the moon.

“Probably,” Toni muttered. “Probably should.” She shrugged. “But this is Riverdale.”

Jason smiled wider. Something flickered in his mouth. I thought it was his tongue, until the head of an ugly cottonmouth snake poked out, and then slithered from between his lips. He gripped the serpent and pulled it from his throat. The creature hit the ground and crept away. I gagged. Cheryl giggled.

The snake grew. Its sides bulged. Its forked tongue flicked. It reminded me of one of those little foam animals from my childhood that grew when placed in water. It inflated itself. It expanded first to the size of a large rattlesnake, and then a great jungle python. The creature reared up and hissed. I stumbled back in horror. The partygoers watched with disinterest. It crashed down onto the table, sending cutlery and empty plates flying.

The crowd raised its arms in unison. Glittering knives slid into their hands. They advanced on the serpent, writhing and hissing on the table. Jason plunged his blade into the beast’s hide. No blood poured out. Fred struck at the snake. His knife glanced off of the invincible scales. Betty stabbed at the serpent. Then the entire crowd descended. The dining room became a mess of shining knives and hardy scales and fangs and slashing. I fell back.

When the slashing was done, the snake was laid out on the table. The plates weren’t empty anymore. Blood ran down its black scales. I could see its sides expanding and retracting. It was still breathing. It was still alive. But it was pacified. I knew, somehow, that this was all they could do.

The snake weakly opened and closed its jaws. It fangs shone brighter than the knives or the moon in the sky. Droplets of venomous saliva dripped down its maw. The people bowed their heads.

They turned to me. The crowd advanced, bloody knives still gripped in their hands. I stepped back. Betty, Archie, and Veronica moved around back. The exits were all blocked off. They moved closer.

“Wait—“ I bleated. “What are you—“

“We all know why we do what we do,” Clifford sighed. “Or maybe we don’t.”

“It’s our nature,” FP said. “Snakes shed their skins, but they’re always snakes.”

“It’s the nature of the town,” Jughead said sadly.

Cheryl stepped towards me. She raised her knife. I closed my eyes. It did not even occur to me to fight back. I knew instinctively that would be foolish.

I never felt the steel part my flesh. I opened my eyes. She still stood there, holding the blade up. I stumbled back. Jughead’s knife pressed softly to the skin of my throat.

“No,” Jughead said.

“No?” Cheryl demanded.

“No,” Jughead repeated.

“What?” Cheryl sneered. “Not enough pep?”

“No,” Jughead said one more time. There were no more words.

Archie, Betty, and Veronica stood aside. I could see the doors of Thornhill yawning open behind them.

I didn’t think twice. I _ran_. I ran out of the house and into the darkness, chest and legs burning. I could feel the ghostly presence of the mob at my back. Yet I knew they weren’t pursuing me. I could practically hear their knives shining in the moonlight. But I knew they wouldn’t come for me.

I ran anyhow. I dashed through the woods. I raced over roads and turnpikes and dirt trails. I didn’t look back once.

I stumbled out onto a highway as sunlight at last began to break. I nearly broke and wept. And that was all I knew, because with the first rays of light beating down on me, I collapsed, unconscious, at the side of the road.

The next few hours were a blur. I awoke in a hospital, of course. I was back in Midvale. I was told I’d been found wandering an empty stretch of road between here and Greendale, babbling about a ghost town called Riverdale. They’d found my car, totaled against a tree a few miles further down. The nurses and doctors determined there was nothing seriously wrong with me, save for the dehydration I’d suffered while stumbling through empty countryside. They determined I’d had some kind of episode.

I demanded to be shown a map. The doctor obliged. She produced one, and indicated to me the stretch along Pickens Run where I’d been found. I searched desperately for ‘Riverdale’ among the many ‘Dales’ in the area. There was Midvale. Oakdale. Greendale. But no Riverdale.

The doctor smiled tolerantly.

“You’re not crazy,” she assured me, though I was sure she thought I was. “There _was_ a Riverdale. Way back when. Before even my mom was a kid. Not much left now but weeds. And that stupid old sign,” she smiled and shook her head. “The town with pep!”

Before I left town again, I stopped into the same diner I’d visited two days before. Every patron in the place stopped to look at me. I assumed they’d all heard about my ordeal. Midvale didn’t seem like the sort of place where much happened. I felt a bit embarrassed.

There was an old map pinned to the wall. I approached it on a whim. The copyright read _1920._ I examined it

And there it was.

Right between Midvale and Greendale, right along Pickens Run—except here it was labeled ‘Sweetwater River’.

Riverdale.

I shuddered and took my seat.

The waitress approached. The same who’d advised me to take the long way and circumvent the stretch of road between here and Greendale. I felt incredibly guilty, not to mention ashamed, that I’d ignored her advice. My face turned a bright red. She approached my table with an airy smile, and took my order without comment.

It wasn’t until an hour later, when she appeared to collect my dishes, that she fixed me with a mischievous, conspiratorial smile and asked: “so, how was Riverdale?”

**Author's Note:**

> This is like a rock song you interpret it however the hell you want it's valid


End file.
